


Damp Squib

by bees_stories



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Crowley and Feelings, Gen, Introspection, Season/Series 10, Season/Series 10 Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley finally puts his finger on why Dean was such a failure as a Knight of Hell and he comes up with a cunning plan to rectify the situation. Spoilers for early season 10. Speculation thereafter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damp Squib

***

As a demon, Dean had been a disappointment.

Oh sure, he was a master of depraved debauchery. His first night on the town had proven that. And every night and half the days afterward. The pair of them had partied hard, drinking and fucking and sodomizing their way through flyover country. They'd left an exhausted trail of woman, and more than few men, in their wakes as they'd toured bars and roadhouses. Most of the time they'd not even bothered to find out the names of their conquests. All that mattered was that they were nubile and enthusiastic. Dean liked them enthusiastic. And Crowley was feeling indulgent. He liked Dean happy, so it was a small price to pay if he had to rein in one or two of his own excesses. 

To his credit, Dean was a stone cold remorseless killer. One only had to look at him when his fingers curled around the hilt of the First Blade to appreciate his love of causing pain. His smile of anticipation was a thing of cruel beauty. His face when his knife bit into flesh, or he sank his fists into someone's stomach, orgasmic. It made Crowley tingle just to watch.

And he did like to watch.

As for what Dean did to karaoke … that could certainly be classified as a crime against anyone with ears, human or demon. Crowley had recorded Dean singing all of Pat Benatar's greatest hits just so he could use them to torture the condemned in the lower pits. It was early days yet, but so far the Acquisitions Department had reported a twenty-two percent increase in those willing to sign over their souls. Becoming a demon was a small price to pay, according to those surveyed, if only it would make the torment stop. 

Crowley sighed as he imagined the possibilities. If only Dean could be persuaded to do a rendition of _My Heart Will Go On_. Who knew how high the numbers might climb? 

But there was more to life than wine, sex and song, and therein lay the crux of Crowley's disappointment with his most promising conquest. For all of his skills, his cruelty, his ability to inflict pain and deal out death with casual abandon, Dean had no natural ambition. 

No _drive._

Crowley had watched Dean in action for years. During that time he'd developed, at first a grudging, and later on, a genuine admiration for the loyalty he'd shown to those he considered his friends and family. His determination when faced with the insurmountable. Dean on a crusade was like a dog with a bloody bone. No matter how impossible the odds. No matter how hopeless the plan, he went into the fray. What made it worse was half the time he managed to cobble together a ragtag coalition of natural enemies to follow him. 

After going head to head with Dean. After watching him face down Archangels and Leviathans. After seeing him charge headfirst into battle with nothing more than a snarky one-liner as a shield, he'd come to the conclusion the loyalty and resoluteness, the leadership abilities and tenacity, were as much a part of Dean as was the dimple in his cheek and his flashing green eyes.

It hurt to admit he'd been wrong. 

"It was a natural mistake," Crowley muttered as he stabbed a piece of pineapple savagely with a tiny plastic sword. "Anybody could have made it." 

But he wasn't _anybody_. He was Crowley, King of Hell. Getting inside of people's heads and figuring out how they ticked so he could use it against them was what he did. 

_He should have known._

Dean wasn't a natural leader. He was a soldier. A super-soldier, without a doubt, but a soldier nonetheless. A soldier who was still following the orders of his commanding officer. 

_John Winchester. That bastard. He was responsible for this mess._

Crowley stabbed savagely at his pineapple again and then hurled the drink across the bar, sending fruit and rum punch flying. He snapped his fingers, aware that his bodyguards were exchanging uneasy glances, trying to work up the balls to say something. "Get me another," he said, and then he dropped his gaze to glower at the polished wood table.

All those years of authoritarian parenting. All that guilt laid upon young Dean's head. Being made responsible for the safekeeping of his baby brother. In retrospect, his error was obvious. Getting shot of Sam was the first thing Dean said he wanted to do as soon as he'd been resurrected. 

He should have known then that something wasn't quite right. 

Dean and Sam were like ham and eggs. Bread and butter. Moose and Squirrel. They were individuals who were so integral, so co-dependent, to one another that they looked incomplete standing alone. And yet Dean had abandoned his brother without so much as a backwards glance. He'd climbed to his feet and grinned at Crowley and said, "Yeah, man, let's get the hell out of Dodge."

A waitress hesitantly approached. She placed a tall, sweating glass on the table and then backed away quickly out of range in case it didn't meet his approval. 

"Stupid, Crowley," he muttered and then took a slurp of potent rum. "You should have been the Bad Daddy, not the Sugar Daddy. Dean needed the stick to be brought into line first, not the carrot. You should have bought him a collar and made him call you _sir_."

He poked at his drink again and sighed, wondering why nothing in life could be simple. He had slaves. He had lackeys, like the pair at the next table who were giving him dour looks when they thought he wasn't paying attention. D/s was fine. But as king he was surrounded by submissives. He'd wanted Dean to be his equal. His strong right arm. He'd wanted a true partner in which to confide and commiserate with as together they reestablished his hold on Hell. 

He'd wanted Dean to be his firebrand. His standard bearer; igniting the fervor of Crowley's minions while he brought the last of Abaddon's followers to heel. 

Instead, he'd turned out to be a damp squib.

Dean didn't want to be a leader of demons. Dean, freed of his responsibilities, wanted to drink and fuck and burn out sound systems with his godawful caterwauling, which would have been fine except there was work to be done. Work that required the King of Hell to get off the party parade and back to his desk, preferably with his consort at his side. 

He wanted his cake. Damn it. 

And he wanted to eat it, too. 

There had to be some way to get the old Dean back. But it was too late to take the arrested child that he'd become firmly in hand. This Dean wasn't above telling Crowley to fuck off, and then emphasizing the point by stabbing him in the chest.

And that wouldn't do. 

That wouldn't do at all. 

Perhaps what was required was a new stratagem. 

Crowley pondered as he lowered the rum punch in his glass an inch at a time. 

As he slurped around the crushed ice at the bottom, he got the first, faint, glimmer of an idea. 

So far Dean hadn't responded to cajoling or threats, he blew them both off with equal indifference. What Dean needed was a taste of his old life to bring him firmly to heel. 

Dean needed his old millstone. 

Dean needed Sam.

It would mean starting over again. Letting Dean get saddled with his old life and his old responsibilities. 

Maybe even once more becoming adversaries. 

But maybe, once Dean got his head on straight, he'd be willing to see the bigger picture and accept his rightful place as a Knight of Hell and consort to his king. 

It was risky.

It meant playing a long game. 

But what was time when you were immortal?

Crowley sighed. He pushed away his empty glass and then reached for his phone. He punched up Sam's number, paused for a long moment, and then sent the call through. 

"Moose, we need to talk."

end


End file.
